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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22407511">The Same Deep Water As You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurelushs/pseuds/aurelushs'>aurelushs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Dissociation, End Avatar Fuckery, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Past Character Death, Pining, Slow Burn, Surprise he’s not really dead!, Temporary Character Death, The Buried Sucks For Vast Avatars, These Two Don’t Know How To Cope With Feelings, Trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 12:54:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,465</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22407511</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurelushs/pseuds/aurelushs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>And then, in an instant, he stopped.<br/>The falling stopped. Mike was laying on a damp patch of dirt in the middle of a forest, some stranger sitting in front of him. He panicked for a moment, instinctually throwing the man in front of him into the Vast. He had been dead. He was dead. How was he alive? How did this happen?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Oliver Banks/Michael "Mike" Crew</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>90</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Ain’t No Grave</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey there welcome to obscure ship town, populatio: two published fics!<br/>What if Mike hadn’t really been dead and was saved? What if it was a slow ass fucking burn?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Air</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I need air</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stifling panic filled his chest as his eyes tried to open but were glued shut. It was so cold, it was so, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>cold in the embrace of the Choke, so disgusting compared to his mind and body’s connection to the Vast. He screamed for air, for anything, but his lungs refused to work in his favour. Nothing would work for him, he couldn’t feel the Vast reaching out to him like it had for so long, all he could feel was the dirt. Pressing in on all sides, choking him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last thing Mike remembered was seeing the hunter outside his door, and then the feeling of falling, but it wasn’t the falling sensation he loved. It was wrong, it was melancholic. He knew he was dying. He could feel it as his body shook with the impact of the hunter’s steel toed boots on his chest, breaking his ribs and puncturing his lungs. Logically, he should be dead, and Mike swore he was. His mind was gone, his soul was falling through the Vast but slowly. It wasn’t how he would fall normally, he fell hard, fast, exhilarating and full of adrenaline. Now? Now it was slow. Melancholic. A memory. Falling through the Vast was always something Mike loved, something he cherished. It was his love. This fall was nothing more than a memory, a record played agonizingly slow. Enough to torture him. Part of him felt that this torture, this slow fall, was penance for the lives he had taken to fuel his god. His saviour. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, in an instant, he stopped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The falling stopped. Mike was laying on a damp patch of dirt in the middle of a forest, some stranger sitting in front of him. He panicked for a moment, instinctually throwing the man in front of him into the Vast. He had been dead. He was dead. How was he alive? How did this happen? Mike felt the itch of dried blood against his skin, his chest and face covered in it, his shirt was nearly frozen to his chest with dried blood and dirt mixed together. It was far too cold for, what was it, April? Mike didn’t know what day it was, what week, or even what month it was. He took in the man in front of him, dark skin, a solid black outfit made up of a long shirt and jeans, and deep lines etched into his face. He was kneeling in the dirt next to Mike, the two of them were beside a shallow pit in the ground where Mike could see the imprint of where his body had been thrown. The man was still clutching a spade in his hand, a look of calm fear on his face, as if he hadn’t expected this to happen. Mike couldn’t remember what happened to him, one moment he was in his home, the Archivist at his dining table, and a hunter at his door, and now was here. The hunter had killed him, she had suffocated him, then kicked him in the ribs and skull until she had decided he was dead for good. Mike wasn’t sure how he had gotten a bullet wound in his chest, but he assumed it was the hunter as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked the other man up and down again, frowning tightly. Mike figured that he should </span>
  <em>
    <span>probably</span>
  </em>
  <span> let the man out of the Vast, get an explanation out of him. Mike let his grip go, letting the quite handsome stranger out of his home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you, what happened to me, and what is going on?” Mike tried to shout, but his lungs rasped and heaved with each breath and instinctively he clutched at his own chest in shock. The stranger blinked at him a few times, and Mike watched as a shiver went down his spine and the man shook a bit. He could hear as the other struggling to calmly control his own breathing after having the air sucked out of his lungs by the falling. “It’s not a pleasant experience if you’re not used to it, is it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no it isn’t.” The stranger said, putting his hand against his own throat and breathing deeply again. “Which answer do you want first?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Which answer. Who am I, what happened to you, or what’s going on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike paused, staring at him curiously, before shrugging. The cold air that seemed to fill this area of the forest was pressing in on him and his arms were covered in goosebumps under the grime. He wanted to get out of this place fast. To go somewhere he felt safe. He wasn’t sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>where</span>
  </em>
  <span> he could go. His flat was off limits considering the Archivist and the hunter knew where it was, and the only other connection he had to someone was Simon Fairchild. He could try going there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, my name is Antonio, Antonio Blake, you were killed when you weren’t supposed to die, so, I brought you back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay… Okay. Give me a minute to…” Mike tried to sit up from where he was half laid across the root of a large tree that stretched along the side of where he was buried, but the movement made his chest scream in pain and he felt himself cry out against his will. Mike hadn’t broken a rib before, much less six of them. Anxiety was building up in him in the same way a storm built up in the distance on the horizon. A knowing threat. “How long was I in there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Two weeks, give or take.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d you find me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The End led me to you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course. Of course he was an avatar of the End. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Victims of the Hunt are never supposed to truly die, you never have the tendrils-” Antonio kept talking, and Mike just stared blankly at him. He was in too much pain to think too hard, and probably, no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely </span>
  </em>
  <span>had a major concussion, if not a fractured skull. It was nice watching Antonio talk, he had an aura of calmness around him, and Mike supposed that’s what happened when you worked with the End. You learned to be calm. “So naturally it took me some time to find you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How am I alive?” Mike asked, and he scowled as Antonio sighed. It was a genuine question, and he wanted some fucking answers if he had been dead in an unmarked grave for two weeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know how. Death and the End are mysterious that way. I found you, got you out of there, and then a few minutes later you started gasping for air.” When Antonio started speaking about the End, he looked bittersweet. His experience wasn’t as willing as Mike’s was. Mike had chose to throw himself blindly into the arms of his god, he was chosen by it for a reason. “And then you threw me into the sky,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well what did you expect me to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing really, I didn’t know you were… That you were, </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span>, like me in a way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmh..” Mike didn’t quite care about the conversation and felt quite rude for that, but the pain that had sunken deep into his bones and every muscle and tendons was too distracting. “I need to go to the Fairchild manor. Now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fairchild manor. I need to go there. Please…” Mike grabbed the edges of his own coat, a poor old thing he had gotten from the ladies section in a second hand store because every mens coat he found and liked was too big for him, and it kept him warm, so he rarely took it off. There were stains of dirt and blood on the dark blue fabric, making the leather tips of the collar shine with the blood that dried on it. Simon had insulted the coat when he first saw it, saying that the shoulder pads in it were tacky, but the added form made him feel more comfortable with his small, lithe frame. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Antonio nodded, giving his hand to Mike to help him stand up, and Mike took it, trying to pull himself up and stand on his feet, but his legs gave out and he fell dangerously close to the pit again. Clearly Antonio had fast enough reflexes that he wrapped his arms around Mike, grabbing him and holding him upright. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you mind it if I were to carry you back to my car?” He asked, and Mike nodded and let himself sag against Antonio’s chest. His own legs refused to work, and he hardly felt it when Antonio grabbed underneath his knees and held him Mike let himself relax against Antonio, he could tell that he didn’t want to hurt him, so he was fine for now. It was almost funny how small he felt in Antonio’s arms, considering he had to have been a good foot taller than Mike. He would have to laugh at that later, if there was a later. Given the fact that as Mike regained feeling in his body and could feel his heart working double time to replace the blood he had lost, and to circulate it to the rest of his body, he had a feeling he wasn’t going to come out the other end of this doing too well. He could feel the bullet holes in his body and how the cold exterior of his body slowly had warm streams running across it. He was bleeding from them, slowly. “Where do you need to go?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fairchild manor… Big house on the sea… You’ll know when-” Mike wheezed again as he spoke, coughing loudly into Antonio’s shoulder and wincing as he did so. The stinging pangs rang through his body, and Mike couldn’t stop himself from seizing up to try and make any of it stop, even just for a moment. “Fuck- you couldn’t have taken the time to get the- get the bullets out of me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t know they were there until now, I’m sorry-” Antonio sounded genuinely concerned as he slowed his pace towards a car that Mike could now see, a comfortable looking thing, if not relatively old. It was a dull grey colour that Mike could appreciate. He had always hated garrish coloured cars that were bright and awful. Living in London he had seen too many of them, and appreciated a monochrome car. Mike turned his head again so it was tucked against Antonio’s chest, and the part of him that had lived alone since he was a teenager told him to get his ass up and start walking by himself - that he didn’t need anybody else to support himself, and fought against the casual intimacy of letting yourself be held by someone else. Mike wanted to support himself, but the pain it caused when he moved his neck meant that any type of movement was, generally speaking, out of the question. When they got up to the car, he set Mike down and leaned him against the rear door of the car, and opened the passenger door, pulling the seat back so there was more leg space, not that Mike needed it, he was barely five feet tall, but the gesture was nice. When Antonio was doing that, Mike looked through the windows and open door and noticed the few crystals hanging from the rearview mirror. He was never one for ‘pretty’ things, preferring the essentials and things that would keep him from standing out too much, but the crystals were nice. One of them that was hanging on a chain from the mirror was a royal blue in the dull light that filtered through the trees, and it shimmered as it turned and the light reflected off the stone. Mike stared at that one in particular, and his heart warmed as he noticed that the gold flecks in it looked like stars at night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here, let me know if that hurts your back alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you doing this, why are you caring for me? You don’t even know me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do I need to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do I ‘need’ a reason to help you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes! Christ, I’m not a good person, I’ve killed people, I threw a guy off a skyscraper in Paris!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m responsible for the deaths of an entire crew of people on a ship.” Antonio said, ushering Mike into the car, before quickly closing the door and getting in the driver side of the car. “Neither of us are innocent, I don’t know why I found you, I mean, I buried a guy out here, probably not too far away. So I associate this place with death and burial, but then again, I associate everything with death. It can’t be helped.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike listened as Antonio started to drive, hearing him talk about everything, and how he had seen Mike in passing before the hunter and the Archivist had came to his home, and knew something was off with him. Mike didn't know just how he was found, but he wasn’t complaining. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘M gettin’ blood on your seats…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Its fine, it washes out.” Antonio said, and Mike swore he smiled at him for a second, looking at Mike out of the corner of his eyes before focusing on the road again. “Also, name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s your name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh- oh, right, yeah. Mike. Mike Crew. What your real name?” He asked, and Antonio went silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lovely to meet you then, now, where are we going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get to the closest bridge, over water is better. I’ll get us there after…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t question… Don‘t question it.” Mike sighed, pushing a hand weakly against his chest as he felt the blood start to pool against his head and chest. He’d been shot in the head too apparently, that was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>great</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The two of them were silent as Antonio started to drive, and Mike watched him scan for the closest bridge to the two of them, driving slowly to avoid any potential pedestrians. Sure they got weird looks from people walking, but it wasn’t like they were off road at this point. Mike supposed it could be the fact that there was very visibly blood dripping from his forehead, and he wiped it off with his coat sleeve. He heard Antonio ask if a bridge they were approaching would work, because it passed above a river but it was surrounded by grass on concrete. He nodded, and started to focus closely on the image of the manor. The rolling fog that surrounded the border of the</span>
</p><p>
  <span>property, the cliffs with crashing waves, the sprawling hallways and high roofs, designed for the Vast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Naturally, Antonio started to ask questions, why there was a strong mist and wind whipping around the bridge. Mike just ignored him and told him to keep driving, to go through to the end of the mist, and to stay quiet. Other avatars weren’t allowed to the Fairchild estate, only Vast avatars were, and even then getting there was hard unless they had been dubbed a Fairchild. Mike had, several years earlier, the first time he had met Simon Fairchild. There had been an unusual deposit into his bank, a sum that almost made his heart stop. His bank had flagged the deposit since yeah, five thousand dollars into the bank account of a man who was homeless with fourteen dollars in his account was a weird thing. It said he had been deposited the money by one Simon Fairchild, and a quick search of his name gave Mike an address, so he started driving. He didn’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>where</span>
  </em>
  <span> exactly he was going, but he had Simon’s name in his mind and plenty of questions he needed answered. He wasn’t going to let them go unanswered. Mike was so distracted when he was driving, passing over a bridge, he hadn’t even noticed the mist surrounding him that masked his car and deposited him on another bridge, somewhere he didn’t recognize, a sprawling manor and estate in front of him. The tall metal gate read Fairchild manor, and he knew he was in the right place. There, he met Simon Fairchild and was dragged on a tour of the house, before he told Simon that there was </span>
  <em>
    <span>nobody </span>
  </em>
  <span>like him, throwing himself off the balcony. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mike,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmmm?” Mike noticed his eyes were closed, his breathing heavier than it usually was, his hands were shaking as he clutched the edges of his coat again. His chest felt like it was expanding to the size of the Vast, electrifying him from the inside out. Mike opened his eyes slowly, noticing the metal gates of the manor in front of them, Antonio’s car standing still on the bridge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Vast… I need to get… Need to get inside…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lemme get- get the gate…” Mike struggled with the seatbelt and the door, stumbling out to the keypad on the gate, pressing the number pattern he remembered into it, waiting for Antonio to drive through and then limping through himself and letting the gate slam after him. Mike hardly had enough energy left in him to get to the manor and now he couldn’t feel the touch of the Vast against him again. It sent electricity through him, arching branches of lightning through his chest and exploding out of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, that feeling was gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t feel anything except for pain and exhaustion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Antonio stopped the car, letting Mike sit back down so he didn’t walk the long driveway with his injuries, Mike felt like crying. The impact of sitting down hurt even more now, his body slowly regaining feeling in his own body and he felt like a bloody corpse. For all anybody but the two of them knew, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> a corpse. Mike didn’t wait for an answer as he climbed out of the car again, pushing against the front door as hard as he could, trying to get it open, but it was locked. Blind panic ran through his mind. What if Simon was gone too? What if he wasn’t there, the only person on the face of the planet that Mike could trust, had left him too? Just like everyone else did. Friends, peers, his </span>
  <em>
    <span>parents</span>
  </em>
  <span>- well that was the Leitner’s fault, but they had never cared for Mike to begin with, seeing him as a pain to deal with, never a child. If Simon wasn’t there, his best option was to crawl back into that grave and die for good this time. His second option was a window. He still had </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span> upper body strength and could climb up to the second floor if he tried. In the seventeen years he had known Simon, he knew those windows had never been locked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So with no short supply of struggle, Mike began pulling himself up the lattice and copper gutters, using his knees and elbows for the most part. This was one of the few moments he was thankful for his underweight frame, it meant he had to do less work getting up. It took what felt like ages to get to a window, but in reality it was only five minutes as Mike kicked against the window, before remembering it opened inwards, and grabbing the edge of the window pane and wedging it open. He was small enough that he could squeeze through the window without hurting himself, and he spared a final glance over his shoulder at Antonio, sitting in his car, before pushing himself through the window into the carpeted hall. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Sky Calls To Us</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The marble hallways with their high ceilings were a familiar comfort to Mike as he stumbled down them, tracking dirt and his own blood across the floor and carpets. He felt like he was in an unending corridor and his head spun with each step, given the amount of blood he was steadily losing. The halls were particularly silent, usually you could hear at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span> noise from one direction or another, but it was more silent than the grave. Mike staggered down the corridor, tripping over the carpet and his own feet until he reached the first staircase. It was a grand old thing, Brazilian mahogany and maple, Simon had told him, his wife’s idea. It was quite beautiful, and from what Mike had been told, she sounded like a brilliant woman with good artistic taste. The stairs went down the same distance as two floors, curving inwards into themselves to meet in the middle of the entryway. Mike couldn’t hear anything in the distance, not even the faintest sound of footsteps that could’ve come from Simon as he stood at the top of the staircase, his legs shaking with weakness as he clutched at the banister. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he had to do was take the first step. His body shook as he lowered his foot to the first step and faintly he thought of calling out for Simon, to see if he was there, but hearing his own raspy voice earlier, he didn’t sound like himself, and he didn’t want Simon reflexively attacking him. It took too long for Mike to try and get down even five stairs, and there had to have been thirty more left. Mike‘s chest screamed in pain as he tried to breathe, stepping down to the sixth stair, when his knees gave out on him, sending all his weight forwards, tripping over himself and losing his grip on the railing. It took thirty seconds for him to get to the bottom of the stairs, wincing at the increased pain in his ribs and the loud crack he had heard on one of the stairs. Faintly over his own blood rushing in his head, Mike heard someone walking into the room, and then stop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Michael?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lifted his head vaguely in the direction of the noise and tried to wave his hand because he knew it was Simon, and moaned in pain when he felt his ribs crack again, before passing out cold on the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he woke up again, Mike could smell whiskey and the god awful stinging burn of it in the open wounds. Of course Simon didn’t have a first aid kit or antiseptic, why would he? He had no use for it. Mine struggled to push himself up, his shoulders and bones ached and cracked under his weight, and his hand slipped as he tried to hoist himself. His vision was a blur and he could feel every fracture and break in his ribs as he shifted to sit up and try to look around. He couldn’t see Simon and that creeping dread started to pound and roar in his head again, coursing through his veins like a raging river. Mike cried out, hardly forming actual words as he forced his throat to work so he could scream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Michael! Christ,” Mike couldn’t see, but he could hear someone running across the floor towards him, before Simon knelt on the carpet next to where he laid in the couch, his face twisted in panic. “Don’t move son, stay still.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike groaned in response as Simon spoke, before he passed a cup of water to Mike, a thin blue straw in it. He smiled weakly, hands shaking so hard he could hardly hold it steady without spilling it over the side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were dead Mike, I felt it and I saw your death from Jonah.” Simon had first looked positively furious, but now, he looked relived and confused. “You were gone. I felt you leave the Vast’s arms the same way I felt you arrive.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, ‘parently not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Archivist and his friend killed me, buried me, ‘n then I woke up in some guys lap…” Simon was scowling as Mike spoke, and he could tell Simon had been about to do something idiotic or reckless before he had showed up. Probably going to try and kill the Archivist and the hunter</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some guy?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah? Says his name is ‘Antonio Blake’ but it’s a fake name. Avatar of the End or something…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon just nodded, helping Mike take a drink of more water, slower this time, before he looped an arm under Mike’s shoulders, and pulling him to his feet. He started walking slowly towards the few spare bedrooms on the first floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here,” Simon said, and Mike just now noticed that he wasn’t wearing a shirt and could see all the wraps of bandages around his torso. “Lay down son,” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“M’fine…” Mike said, brushing off Simon’s arm and trying to walk on his own, before tripping and stumbling over his own feet. Simon raised an eyebrow at him, and Mike sighed. He mumbled and complained as he let Simon help him to the bed, something more lavish than he’d ever slept on before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now go to sleep Michael.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Antonio. If he hasn’t left, get his… Get his real name.” Mike said, realizing just how exhausted he was and how comfortable the bed was. He pulled the covers over himself, curling in on his own body for comfort. Faintly through the open window, he could see Antonio laying on the grass outside, Simon standing above him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was all he saw before Mike fell asleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sleep wasn’t peaceful. What felt like hours and hours in an unending nightmare, trapped below the ground, was only an hour and a half. Mike tried to scream for help as the dirt pressed in on him, restricting his movement and choking him. He wasn’t aware that he was audibly screaming in his sleep, and thrashing about as he tried to escape the dirt in his mind, throwing his sheets off as he kicked out, the suffocating image in his mind making him scream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t aware that Simon had been standing there, and watching him scream and kick about, leaning against the doorframe. There was a crease between his eyebrows as he watched Mike scream, before sighing and walking away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It went on like that for three days. Mike staying awake out of fear and sleeping for no more than a few hours at a time,screaming his lungs out when he finally slept. He hardly ate, mostly staring out at the ocean and the sky, and drinking the occasional cup of tea as he sat in the windowsill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His name is Oliver.” Simon said one day to him, patting him on the shoulder as Mike stared more at the glass than he did anything else that day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oliver?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. He told me his name is Oliver Banks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmh…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still having nightmares of the Buried?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. You don’t look like you’re up to talking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not.” Mike didn’t watch as Simon left the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sea was quiet as Mike stood on the edge of the cliff behind the manor, staring out over it and thinking. It had been three days since Oliver had taken him out of the ‘grave’ he was in and brought him back, and not once had Mike been able to feel the Vast like he always could. All he could feel was the Choke and the pressure of every damn bandage that was wrapped around him by Simon. He had to be a part of the Vast still, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> to. If not he wasn’t himself. He couldn’t live with himself if he wasn’t a servant of his god anymore. So his idea was to throw himself off the cliff, and see if he hit the sea or not. The fall would kill him if he wasn’t taken back by the Vast. Mike was scared that the time he had spent dead in the Buried was enough to take the Vast out of him, so either he was reassured by his god or he was dead for good. Faintly over the roaring in his own head, Mike recalled the first time he had experienced the full truth of the Vast. Throwing himself from the building in Chichester. At the time his focus had been escaping the creature chasing him, and jumping was just how he had to escape, and pray that the Vast took him, so he didn’t take the time to appreciate the feeling of it. Now he appreciated it, but wished he could experience that first fall again. Mike watched as the sea spread out around him, blending with the sky as the horizon became invisible between the inky blue of them both. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he were to die doing this, he thought, at least it was on his own terms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Six steps to the ledge. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Five </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Four</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Three</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Two-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mike?” He hadn’t heard Oliver approach from behind him, putting his hand on Mike’s shoulder and coaxing him to turn around in the process. When Oliver looked at him, he saw the tears of frustration and anger, the hardened look in Mike’s eyes, and the face of someone who was too brave and too stupid for their own good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You left your light on, and I couldn’t see you, so I came looking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, why! Why are you doing this? You could leave at any minute, but you’re still here!” Anger and frustration bubbles up inside of him like a storm and Mike could hear thunder rumbling in the distance as wind kicked up around him, making a small vortex of air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, then let me go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mike, what are you doing.” Oliver wasn’t compelling him like the Archivist did, he was sincere with the question. “Can you answer that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m seeing if I can die or not! Okay? If I don’t hit the sea- that means the Vast is still with me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d kill yourself to see?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes! Christ! I would!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you won’t. If you were going to die, I would know.” Oliver was gently, slowly, pulling Mike towards him and away from the ledge of the cliff. He acted like he was coaxing a small animal to safety, not someone who could likely kill him with little effort, if Oliver even could die. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked concerned, but gentle, like he knew just how dangerous Mike could be if he wanted to, but trusted him enough to put his life in Mike’s hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The concern on his face just managed to make Mike angrier, and while he didn’t pull away, he began to shout mindlessly, feeling his own anger suffocate him in it’s cold, chilling embrace. Mike didn’t notice that there was a storm on the horizon until the loud clap of lightning snapped him out of it and he flinched, pulling his arms in and hiding his face, his forearms crossed as if he was bracing for a punch. He barely heard Oliver mumble something, turning the two of them around so Mike wasn’t facing the sea anymore, letting him hide his face in Oliver’s shoulder, holding him tightly as he started to shake nearly violently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not scared of me…” Mike finally said, muttering into Oliver’s chest for the most part, letting himself be held. To be vulnerable. He was used to people being scared of him, even before he became an avatar. They weren’t exactly looking to show any kind of care to an aggressive, scared orphan with a nightmare of a scar that sprawled across his body, branching off onto his chin and bits of his cheek. People stayed away from, and he didn’t mind it. It was safer to have no connections, to let himself be ignored, that way if he disappeared, nobody would notice or care. Mike didn’t notice that his face was damp with tears either. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no reason to.” Oliver said as he gently walked forward, pulling Mike with him slowly enough that when Oliver’s back met one of the exterior patio walls and he let himself lean against it, Mike hadn’t noticed, and let himself again slump against the other, falling completely into his embrace. He gestured vaguely over to one of the swinging chairs that resembled a small bed more than it did a patio swing. Oliver got the message, moving the two of them over to it, still holding Mike precariously as he sat down, leaning against the back of it. He let Mike curl himself up against his chest, and felt truly safe for the first time in the last few days. Oliver just held him until his breathing slowed down, and steadily evened out, and when he checked Mike’s expression, he was sound asleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time since he took a gasp of air again, Mike slept without a dream. Without a nightmare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At peace. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Push The Sky Away</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hey guys,,,,, sorry this chapter took like two months,,,, the current situation has taken a blow on my creative writing juices but hopefully im getting back in the swing of things, so here's a shorter chapter as i figure out where im taking this fic</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>“… I told him already. Avatars of other entities aren’t permitted here-”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He’s sleeping. Talk to him when he wakes up.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“That isn’t- How are you even here!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I drove here, with Mike. Was that not obvious?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Warm sun danced across the exposed skin of Mike’s back where his shirt had rolled up in his sleep, and he could feel Oliver’s hands on him, a gentle embrace that Mike hadn’t experienced before. He didn’t want to wake up. He was perfectly content with his dreamless, peaceful sleep, laying in Oliver’s arms. But someone else had other plans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please don’t wake him up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every time he spoke, Mike could feel the vibrations of his words from where his head rested against Oliver’s chest, that made up for his unnerving lack of breathing and lack of heartbeat. Mike cracked one eye open and looked at who Oliver was talking to. It was Simon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course it was Simon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew that there were supposed rules about Fairchild Manor, and how it was a sanctuary for avatars of the Vast and those touched by it, and he wasn’t fond of other avatars being there. Mike didn’t really care about those rules, he didn’t care much about other avatars and didn’t know others, so he didn’t have to worry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now though, with Oliver here, he had an issue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shhhhhh, ‘m sleeping Simon.” Mike mumbled, lifting an arm up and lazily waving it in Simon’s direction. “Go away…” </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Michael-” He lifted his head up to look at Simon while he spoke, glaring up at the old man with a ferocity he hadn’t been able to muster in the last few days, before  letting his head thunk back down against Oliver’s chest. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>sleeping, </span>
  </em>
  <span>go away.” </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Mike’s repeated emphasis got Oliver to chuckle softly, and Mike curled up further as he heard Simon walk away and open the door to the house. Oliver was surprisingly warm for an avatar of the End. As far as Mike knew, they were usually cold, like the touch of death. He knew that chill all too well and too familiarly. It was a bone deep, inescapable, relentless chill. It hadn’t left his body since he had been pulled from the earth. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Oliver didn’t say anything as Mike clutched at his shirt, patting his back gently. He recognized that Oliver was saying something, his chest rumbled as he spoke, but Mike didn’t pick up on the fact that they were words, and not just vibrations. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Mike.” He said, and Mike just groaned in response. “I hate to disturb you, but I think you should eat.” </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“No…”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“No? Why not?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t wanna.” Mike huffed as he responded, but rolled to his side so he could stand up. He put his hand out to Oliver to hold, and pulled him up off the swinging chair. He fought the urge to refuse to let go of Oliver’s hand, and dropped it as soon as Oliver was on his feet. Mike took a good look at him before turning around and walking back into the house. He knew Oliver was following him because he could hear the sounds of his footsteps and the sound of him closing the door. Mike waited until he heard him get closer to keep walking, and made his way to the kitchen. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>He could use a cup of tea. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Mike set himself busy making himself a cup of tea, pulling a mug down from the cupboard, setting the kettle on the stove, and grabbing his favourite type of tea. A black cinnamon tea he had demanded Simon to keep in his house after he started making frequent visits. He leaned on the counter as he waited on the kettle and grabbing an apple off the counter. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Tea?” He asked, pointing his hand with the apple in it at the stash of different teas in one of the other cupboards. He had made a list of ten of his favourite teas for Simon to buy, and had far more back at his flat. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His flat</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t risk going back. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Oh, tea would be nice.” </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Got a favourite kind?”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I’m fine with anything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. Earl grey?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike grabbed the box of earl grey and raised an eyebrow to Oliver, and he nodded, so Mike got to work making the tea. It was something he had always done, so the routine of it was calming and familiar. It was ten minutes of peace as he waited for the kettle to boil and the tea to steep. Ten minutes of relaxation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was just then that he took in Oliver’s height. He had to have been six foot three, and compared to Mike, who was only four foot eleven, he was a giant. Mike wouldn’t lie about the fact that he had a thing for taller men, which wasn’t hard given his height, but it always sweetened the pot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Oliver? Well, he was quite handsome. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Milk or sugar?” Mike asked, sliding the cup across the counter to Oliver. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, sure. Thanks.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike just nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cup of tea was hot against his skin, and Mike almost hissed at the temperature difference from the chill that had burrowed into his bones. He gripped the porcelain cup, trying to ground himself as he felt himself start to shake again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can go home you know,” He finally said, sighing softly. “You don’t need to stay here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oliver just hummed in response and took a sip of tea. Mike stared at him, making a sour face, and shrugging. He couldn’t do anything about that. In response, Mike just walked off. He wasn’t sure if Oliver was following him as he turned the corners of the vast hallways and ceilings of the manor, until he was opening the door to his room. He set his tea down before crawling into bed, and then starting to slowly drink his tea. Mike didn’t look up to see if Oliver was there, but saw him out of the corner of his eye, walking back to his spot on the lawn and sitting down. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“What a weird man…” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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